14 Pointing to You

And still, I sat with my hands in my lap — palms up, like I was waiting for something I knew wouldn’t come — like stale air was all I could hold. I traced the shape of your name — sharp vowels, crooked consonants — one letter for every season since you left. I lost count at 14. And still, I can hear you — laughing through your teeth, saying you hated your name. I poured a drink, watched the whiskey pool at the 14 mark, glass sweating like it knew, and thought about swallowing the whole thing. Instead, I held the glass so long the ice melted to nothing. 14 notes app confessions, all timestamped at terrible hours. "I'm sorry I always spoke to you like I was keeping score." *"I'm sorry my questions felt like weapons — I just wanted to know where you kept the tenderness."* "I wanted you to love me more than you could." "Forget I said that." "I would have let you ruin me if you'd asked." I deleted them one by one — like stitching my mouth shut, like learning to speak without a tongue. I know you’re out there — shaking change in your pocket, like the sound might drown out your guilt, ripping napkins into tiny pieces, thinking about calling but never meaning it. I know you drink with the lights off now — like you’re scared your own shadow might tell on you. I know you’re out there — but I don’t know where. And still, I sat with my hands in my lap — not calling, not crying, not moving — just waiting for something I couldn’t name. I stood barefoot on the cold tile, watching the faucet drip — 14 slow drops, each one sounding like a pin hitting the floor. I tried to count faster than they fell. I always lost. I counted the pills in the bottle — just checking. There were 14. I closed the cap and held my breath — like it might open itself again, like it was waiting to see if I’d already lost something. But instead — I sat with my hands in my lap, 14 pointing to you, if you know what to know. I pressed my thumb into the bruise on my arm — just to feel something bite back. It bloomed like ink under my skin. I counted to 14 and let go. I still wake up at 4:14 — lungs tight like I’ve been running, like my body forgot how to breathe without you, like something’s burning in my chest, like something’s trying to get out. I don’t pray for you. I don’t curse you either. I sit up, open my palms — the room holds its breath. I listen. I taste blood. And still, I sit with my hands in my lap — palms up, like I’m waiting to be handed something I know won’t come — palms up, like I’m being punished for asking at all. But my hands won’t stay empty forever. 14 pointing to you, if you know what to know.

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Kiernan515

American

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